Best Epithet Poems
I have claimed to be apolitical but there are times
when the crop is ready for harvesting, so I put fuel
in the John Deere, ink in my pen and wrote...
He'll get millions of votes for that nicked ear
The vengeful narcissist people should fear
Picasso President
With malicious intent
He should be given the famous Bronx Cheer!
It looks like the graffiti on the wall
Four more years and America will fall
Trump will blow his own horn
Guilty of loving p.o.r.n.
And the rape of all the women he's mauled
There's another Trump, Junior's daughter, Kai
Brought a tear or two to dear grandpa's eye
It was her intention
During the convention
To convince people that he's a good guy
Melania was there but just for show
Since he paid off Stormy... well uh, you know
She has kept her distance
Abhors his existence
She can't be with him since he's had a ho
His Trumpeters may be humbled one day
Those who will vote for him and have their say
Those who are so headstrong
Thinking he's done no wrong
The beast who led America astray
He hasn't made the US great again
He's torn the nation apart... friend from friend
Time will tell the story
But there'll be no glory
Picasso President is no Godsend.
Trump toadies must be in a state of bliss
When his venom spews like a snake, hiss, hiss
They praise the dictator
The alienator
His villainy too baleful to dismiss
I've never liked saying, "I told you so"
But D J Trump is a jerk and a schmo
He's a divisor of men
When he's elected again
His tyranny will reign like a deathblow
I've read a few posts about Trump and yet
Not one comment did I write to upset
Another poet's view
I expect that from you
Without hostility or epithet
What in the ink whorl is papièr churl going on?
Ill quill vapors are trying to victimize me,
vex prose don’t belong
Word saber player haters trying to stick it to me,
throwing cursive stones
Their coarse paper tone is so digital angry
Blog blots got their writes all wrong
Sore spots ... ink stains
Rotted crease stroke brains
always wanna bring paper cut pain
Plenty briquettes blurt-y wanna dance dirty,
a-many ugly exchanges ain’t squid spit purty
If coal paper meet a diamond pen,
Crush Groove is gonna tango win
Counterfeit clone muse
using plagiarist, copy printer tools
Blank scroll troll fools
didn’t learn Poetry Slam old school
Any lip ink unwell with a lying spiel,
gets the clean-up Truth erasure deal
Epithet tongues liquor epitaph envelopes,
gin up troublesome, scarlet letter tropes
But when this Iron Will pen
meet their forged paper
Pallbearer finger caper
gonna press an eulogy send
Writ smack weakies think they’re grit summon strong!
Here, beneath the sky of my mind,
in the swaying hammock of my heart,
strung between tall palms of loss and love -
lies a child's form furled , asleep.
RainGirl is this little one's name,
her father called her this -
" She who was born with the rain,"
born to bring liquid life again
She who should have brought bliss
to dry and desolate plain
bleached by drought's hot kiss...
Instead, she sleeps now, folded away,
peaceful as an unborn chick -
life protected, yet space restricted
in her hard shelled hide.
Conceived through loss,
she now lives, survives,
because her brothers died.
As if they stepped aside.
Brief pure lives roughly shortened
by life's relentless tide
of comings and goings, never ceasing -
Life's, and Death's continual pacings...
Now, she-child must quietly sway...
Allow a woman to take her place -
who longs to laugh with female grace...
So sleep, curled child, beneath blue skies,
Sleep those bitter hours away...
Arise Woman! Get up, stand tall, stand strong!
The desert plain is ablaze with flowers.
Posted 28/09/2017
What do I call that young coquette?
My shadow self; my silhouette.
Those clothes, that hair, a cigarette.
The joie de vivre; the vain regret.
What sort of pithy epithet
will she recall, lest I forget?
Perhaps, instead a sobriquet
for who I was back in the day.
But what would she wish to portray?
Somewhat naive, a bit risqué?
A wounded child or power play?
“All that and more!” is what she’d say.
That girl who played a victim game
(though she would make the counter-claim).
A femme fatale; a wild flame.
A spirit not a soul could tame.
Both full of pride and full of shame,
all contradiction just the same.
It all feels now as but a dream,
that martyr of her own regime.
A fog of war; a distant scream.
An echo of one’s disesteem.
A soldier who would self-redeem
and break her shackles at the seam.
Now when she comes to mind I smile,
recalling each and every mile
we marched and fought in rank and file.
We failed, we wailed, we shed the guile
to wake and heal and reconcile
a misspent youth and life worthwhile.
*****************************
WHENCE WISDOM
Sins of youth, are not rare, I confess to many as mine
Include brazen claim we knew more than last generation
We may come to see our error with passing time
Or press on with obstinate determination
Demagogues have used this trend to push their intention
Seduced young with promised Utopian innovation
These are willing recruits to the myths of state ascension
Though communes brought hunger and death to many a nation
Let us observe to observe and learn from past history
Use experience and reason deciding which way we go
Grant to each their own diverse choices, allow them to be
That could be a greater gift that we might bestow
While at any age, we may merit such epithet
Subject: OLD should not precede ‘FOOL’ as the blind predicate
Which are the best ways
to appreciate anybody’s love and realize
how wonderful it can be for many...
if there's enough sincerity?
The remorseful words I never spoke
to be forgiven are the scars left open
to make them heal with such a scorn;
which lover can mend what he broke?
I have asked myself
which are the best ways
to build a strong love and defend it
from possible threats;
am I willing to sacrifice myself...
without a mention on my epithet?
Which are the best ways
to show how adorable I could be...
loving and giving endlessly;
letting those pure emotions
flow before they explode inside me!
Grandma’s brown knuckles crinkled
As she gently peeled the heirloom
Potatoes, discarding the brown-
Skinned strips into the garbage
Bin. She was at home here, alive
And aloud, tastes and scents mingling
In the air like wispy fairies in Neverland, mingling
With the mauve, sun-kissed raisins lying crinkled
On slices of butter-brown toast. She is alive
Here, sheltered by the pots and pans, heirlooms
from her mother Wilma, who once was the garbage
Lady, the help, for a white family uptown. Wilma's brown
Skin was the softest variety of brown,
Likened to silky mocha-hued beads mingling
With glints of the golden hour. Garbage,
However, was her epithet. She was crinkled
Black plastic to that white family. Her heirloom
was the oppressive garrote of Jimmy Crow — alive
And well in the hearts of many, still alive
Today in the gashes and slashes brown
Men, women, and children still absorb, heirlooms
from a past infected with rankling vehemence mingling
With entitled gall. Wilma's old hands were dry-crinkled,
Just like her daughter, who now throws the skin in the garbage,
Who marched hard to not be viewed as garbage,
Who plans to keep Wilma’s soulful memory alive,
Who cooks until her freckle-speckled hands are crinkled,
Who is loud and proud to be her shade of brown,
Who gets straight to business and foregoes the mingling,
Who works so her progeny can be have the proudest heirloom:
Pride. Pride in those gently-knotted heirloom
locks, pride in the skin that was once garbage,
Pride, pride, pride. Her ever-beating heart mingles
With the cosmos — she is a celestial being, alive
In the splendor of black joy. She also likes her toast brown
And her sun-kissed raisins ever-so-crinkled.
And while her heirloom knuckles stay tightly crinkled,
Her heart will mingle with stars and keep the love alive,
Because she — we — will never be garbage again. We’re just brown.
THEORY
The truth is that we are the people of North America mixed by the blood that existed via the birth of a nation. We have no biblical presence as given. We are Social Theological Studies. No God was there for us. We became a government formed from earth. We are generations discovered. We are the blood matured and mutated from origin, immigration, and enslavement. We state our allegiance and our beliefs to a greater source. We are worshipers of The Unknown God. Although we may use the given epithet by the Hebrews, Jews, and Gentiles - Jehovah God Lord – this, to us, is the unknown God.
Physiology
1. A political-religious focus delivered through a Humanities model.
2. A socio-activist voice that will address the Humanities situation.
3. Social Theological Studies searches for a greater way that captivates the
mind and embellishes the soul.
Methodology
Through empirical research via a mixed method, Social Theological Studies will investigate our biblical presence as the formation of living via structure. Poetry and philosophy ethnography of ideals, beliefs, creeds, a family way (ethnomethodology), etc. will be composed through a multidisciplinary model, which involves and is a Humanities approach.
Philosophical Hypothesis
We did not evolve. We were discovered.
This is a casual model that represents two variables, which are discovery (to the creation of a nation) and evolution (our time of metaphorical evolution).
Holistic Perspective
As stated, we have no Biblical presence given. We are committed to this sense-datum of a nation (United States of America) origin and birth because…
Only through iniquitous content does a wrongful world exist or hold capacity. Thus, this hold true to a governess of a country.
Verisimilitude
The credibility and quality of this project are authentic in research via observation, interviews, case studies, etc. that semblance of truth refers to research findings that are consistent with occurrences in the ‘real world.’
_____________________________________________________________________|
Written June 25, 2016!
BLACK,RED and GOLD
Location---SOMEWHERE IN KÖNIGSBERG 1945 APRIL 9
Scene---A Dying German Agent/A Soldier`s thoughts/reflections just before death
On this periphery of life
Let blue jeans of my ice blonde Brenda wear me to marry with death
Fire will be her gown, ashes shall be my girdle, shattered is everything beneath
Smokes so discerned sprawling
Some will say it was a poetic corpse after so deadly the strife
Wrapped in unknown funerary fetes
My blood will be poured in cask of mimicks
A yawn concealing me in semicolon as I saw I was dying,
sickened of the sicks
All the ravens of sorcery lurking the corner in full stops
As if I knew nothing following the wisdom of Socrates
Boots and kilt emphasizing my lost treasure
At last the casket to embrace me from the provocateur
No persuasive argument will be my candy,
a keepsake solidarity in barter
A marked plot spewed by shrewd men
An aftermath velvet and a last squint of Prussia far and near
Death so dear only to see if the lady in red silk I loved has red roses
My dear Soviet plezhvadya
for the wide-brimmed black hat, red bloody eyes hers, a gunshot
,yellow mouthful venom of words oozing out in raucous abuses
Hatred carped in end and unend Olesya, good as gold my Olesya
Now the bastion they called bastards buccaneered before her epithet
Kaliningrad`s cloud full of black so black an obnoxious smoke
Davai! Davai! they shouted and again nemesis eavesdropped
Eagles died I know not if a death of glory as I felt I saw an 1871 gauntlet
That’s my last shot of life before I became death`s forgotten lucky bloke
Vocabulary --1-Plezhvadya(Russian/Czech)- A Soviet dish
2.Davai!(Russian)--Let`s do it, Come on!
3.Obnoxious-extremely unpleasant
4.Gauntlet-An armored glove of the tectonic Knights
5.Raucous-Harsh,Sharp,Loud
6.Barter-Exchange,Trade,Swap without use of money
7.Buccaneer-Maruader,Plunderer,Raider
When describing bad behavior
Or even a law breaker
The worst epithet humans think for those not admirable
Is to place on the miscreant a label of ANIMAL
He's an ANIMAL they'll squeal
As if animal describes an inmate from hell
On this green earth after all the rantings and railings
Never was an animal who behaved with any human failings
what makes the heart feel for something it can't touch?
his tears caused contractions for his heart to pulse
floundered, looking for loves heartache to clutch
whimsical solace of her essence startles his impulse
shouldering the bane of a kiss that foreshadowed trifles
kooky huh? how time unleashes emotions restrained behind pride
losing his beloved inamorata to an admirer she mollycoddles
his heart became friable to the echo of her suicide
It was the absence of a note that left his worries unverified
what makes the heart feel for something it can't touch?
Now alone and without; a lovers heart is mummified
he will never love another as much
the “ghost orchid” has become her epithet
the rules of this game have changed, misère ouverte.
I chose Bonnie Raitt “I can't make you love me” because when I listened to it it brought
back memories of my childhood feeling second to my fathers work. His physical presence was
always their, but his heart belonged to his work and still is. After listening to the song 5 or 6
times I thought of the question, what makes the heart feel for something that it can't
touch----like love, and went from there.
YOU ...
small, furry,
soft, warm, joyful,
sweet little creature,
came to me in a shadow ...
a time when my heart ran cold,
kicked far down the road by sorrow,
and lost as any hobo without a compass.
I had given hopes and dreams their pink slips ...
shown their sorry, deceitful little selves the door,
and told them where to put their accursed optimism.
Then YOU ...
you who had
been so neglected
and abused by others
of my race, others who had
seen kittens as something less
than themselves ... something for
their twisted amusement ... something
meant for the focus of their ire and hatred
and evil intent ... something at the mercy of the
dominion granted them by their so-called "acumen" ...
YOU, Sugar ...
had come with
such a simple name,
a name I had every intent
of changing to something far
more artistic, or worldly, or cute,
or extravagant, and yet as the time
passed those first days with me, as you
worked your gentle, loving, tender, amiable,
precious, good-natured way deep into my heart,
it was more-and-more evident that whoever had given
YOU your moniker,
had somehow, through
their sinister intent, STILL
been unmistakably affected
by your pure and precious spirit,
and had out-done my best intentions
and wholly self-lauded creativity, (as well
as trumped my attempts to attach a name to
you that others would feel obligated to soak with
feigned praise), by giving you a sweet epithet which,
in its absolute simplicity and virtue, was nothing less than
PERFECT.
YOU, my sweet
little Sugar, abide
the very essence of
your name, and you have
not only sweetened my days
beyond measure, but have saved
my life in ways that I'll never be able to
impart you. Who knew that the dark clouds
of my heart would be rent by such a fuzzy little
face of sunshine - that all I needed was a little bit of
YOU.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "My Companion And Close Friend That Never Complains" Poetry Contest, Eve Roper, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Just A Little Bit Of Sugar Poetry Contest", Debbie Guzzi, Judge & Sponsor.
Along the shore a red feathered sunset
As the sun falls into amber silence
To leave the day's beautiful epithet
The eyes turn peaceful in compliance
Shall I stay until the coming of night
And know that time is the birthing of dawn
Holding close dying pictures of splayed light
On the weathered shore I now stand upon
To find beauty and see it quietly
To be part of the moment when it's shown
Allow a pause and enter silently
And stand with elegance in jeweled tone
To be cradled by awe under the sky
And feel its passing with a deeper sigh
6/28/14
There was a yesterday, pulling at my mind,
disclosing the expected mundane self
reacting, not inclined to throw the clay
upon the wheel, to love without a cause,
to walk the forest path seen overgrown again
and yet there was an incompleteness hovering.
It was as if a man would be content
caressing all the little treasures
that he knew and loved--the ones he kept
within a little box that rested close at hand.
Old friendly ghosts were there for nourishment
and with emollients for dying days.
And yet there was a scent upon the wind.
There was a voice, more powerful than ears accommodate,
that beat upon the modest self
that hides beneath my consciousness,
brought forth like Lazarus and swathed
in winding sheets, reluctant to arise.
A working Christ would be like that.
No force of arms, no epithet of conquest
nor a blooded history to write.
A gentle call into the tomb would do it—
just a soft reminder
that there is no grace in sleep
beneath a monument or stone—
that there is glorious bursting of the night
in store; there is a paradise to own.
It takes that tug upon the consciousness.
It takes an empty page or two
before the forward to a mound of years
set down. The alpha and omega bow
before that bright eternity of now
and are consigned to rhetoric;
there are the stars aborning,
charted, crumbling as their yesterday
becomes today, and in the morning light
will disappear.
~
Your soul survives the kiss of death
continuing when life’s passed on.
And charisma and persona
morph into photos when you’re gone.
And though time writes your epithet
fate decides if it’ll be read.
For your legacy, good or bad
can carry-on after you’re dead.
Whether you will be remembered
rest on how your life was perceived.
For if you were loved and you loved
life’s highest hurdles were achieved.
Selflessness and dedication
spin gossamer threads into rope.
And after your bones turn to dust
your soul can still inspire hope.
Love can make all the difference
though history knows not your name.
For although you’re anonymous
your footprint matters, all the same.
(Quatrain)
02/28/2016